Whumptober 2019- Asphyxiation
by Frankie McStein
Summary: He couldn't look away from her. Couldn't stop picturing the moment she would fall, the rope would tighten around her neck, and he would have to watch as she died


They'd been there for nearly a full day; he'd watched as the sun had set and the moon had risen. The gags were doing their jobs well; neither of them had made a sound for hours. The ropes that were holding him to the chair were coarse; his wrists were chafing even though he hadn't tried to get free since the last attempt had sent blood trickling over his skin. He wondered if the rope around her neck was as rough, whether blood was trickling down body, hidden by the black of her top.

He dragged his gaze up to meet hers through the glass. They were both exhausted, eyes heavy and bloodshot. But, where he had been sitting down for so long that his backside was numb, she had been standing, balancing on what had been a three legged stool. How she had managed not to fall when Meyers had kicked the one leg out had him baffled.

She was swaying slightly, shivering from the chill of the dew, each shift of her body threatening to topple the stool, to leave her hanging in the air, held up by only the noose. He wanted to jump through the window, run to her, wrap his arms around her, lift her weight, cut the rope. He felt his muscles complain as his arms strained, almost absentmindedly, against their restraints.

She gave him a look, as if she knew what he was trying to do and was grateful for the effort, even though she knew it was useless. He tried to make his face show the tired desperation that was running through him. He wanted to make sure she knew that he had tried. That he hadn't just given up. Her only response was a slow blink, but he knew what she meant.

'_It's okay. I don't blame you.'_

He blamed himself though. As his eyes drifted away from her, following the second rope, the one that ran through the window, between the stool and the door, he wondered if the others would blame him. If, when they came running in, the opening of the door pulling the rope and yanking the stool out from under her, and they saw him sitting there, her hanging in front of him, they would say it was his fault.

He knew she didn't have long left; the clues Meyers had left were carefully designed to lead their would-be rescuers right to them. After all, if no one came through the door, her death wouldn't play on anyone's mind. Except his. However she fell, whenever she fell, he would see it. She would want him to look away, he knew. She would want him to remember her alive and vibrant and smiling, not choking and writhing in mid-air. But he wasn't sure he would be able to look away, to leave her alone in that moment. She would be scared enough without thinking that he had abandoned her.

Even if no one came for them, her own body would fail her eventually. Even if they didn't come until it was too late for her, the image of her struggling so helplessly would be burned into his mind. He would see it every time he closed his eyes. He would relive it every time he tried to sleep. He would replay it on a loop every time he let his mind wander.

The worst part was, he knew that was the point. He knew that was exactly what Meyers wanted. If the others came bursting in, and had to live with the knowledge that they had caused the stool to fall, that would be a bonus. What Meyers wanted, really wanted, was for him to suffer. To sit and watch, helpless, while she fought, and failed, and died.

A noise caught his attention. It sounded like a yell, and his head snapped left toward the door. Fear surged through him in a sickening wave as he waited to see the door move. To see the rope tug against the stool. To see her feet kick as her body tried in vain to free itself.

Another yell, closer this time, and he recognized the voice. They were here. Any second now they would come charging in, one solid kick dealing with the lock on the door. Would he hear the clatter of wood on stone through the open window as the stool dropped to the ground? Would he hear the creak of the rope as it swung with her weight? Would he hear the choking sounds the duct tape wouldn't be able to muffle as her lungs stuttered?

He looked back to her and saw tears in her eyes. Fear and tears. And he knew that was the sight he would never forget. Whenever he thought of her after this, he would see terror edged with diamonds, sparkling in the light of the early morning sun.

Her cheeks moved, her lips shifting beneath the gag, and he realised she was trying to smile. And he knew why. He was going to be safe. She would die, fighting for a breath she would never take, but he would be saved. That was good enough for her. He wished their roles could be reversed. He would give anything to be the one framed by the window with the rope around his neck. For her to be the one sitting inside in a hard wooden chair. He would happily sacrifice himself if it meant she would be all right.

Footsteps, right outside the door, had her eyes sliding closed. He saw a tear trickle down her cheek. The door flew open. The rope pulled tight. The stool was pulled to the floor, crashing down onto its side. The two men rushing in saw him, ran to him, started sawing at the ropes holding him, tugging at the duct tape gagging him. But all Rick saw was Higgins' body as it jerked and convulsed in the air.

…

Magnum and T.C. didn't bother waiting for HPD to arrive. They knew Rick and Higgins were being held inside the old hangar and had no intention of hanging around. They moved quickly and quietly, training kicking in and easily overruling their emotions. They wanted to go running in at full speed, but there was a chance of encountering resistance, so they cleared the security office and waiting room first. They called to each other as the moved, fairly certain there was no one waiting to ambush them but hoping the noise would draw their would-be attackers out if they were wrong.

Then, finally, they headed for the hangar itself. The locked door didn't bother them; T.C. gave one firm kick and the door swung open. Their eyes landed on Rick. He was tied to a chair, directly in front of them, facing the back wall, halfway into the hanger. Blood was masking the left side of his face, and he was trying to call out through the duct tape that had been wrapped around his mouth.

They ran, glancing around and not seeing any threats. T.C. started cutting through the ropes around his wrists while Magnum started working on the tape that had been wrapped around and around Rick's head. Rick was struggling in the chair, yelling something behind the gag, tugging frantically at the ropes.

They tried to soothe him, to tell him he was safe, that they were there, but it didn't seem to help. The second ticked by, them both talking and reassuring, but Rick grew more frantic. Blood was soaking into the ropes T.C. was trying to cut, and Magnum's hands kept slipping off the tape.

Finally, after what felt like hours, T.C. got Rick's right hand free, and Rick immediately started trying to help Magnum rip the duct tape off his own mouth.

"Get Jules!" he screamed, the instant his lips were uncovered. He was staring out of the window in front of him and, as Magnum and T.C. turned, they saw the rope, the slim blonde figure hanging in the window, still kicking weakly, and they both ran for the door.

Rick watched, not even trying to free his other hand. Just sat and stared in an agony of anticipation until he saw his friends reach Higgins. Magnum wrapped his arms around her waist, lifting her weight, while T.C. reached up and grabbed the rope, going at it with his knife with the same urgency that Rick was feeling.

He stared, eyes wide with fear, until the rope gave way. The three figures vanished from his view as the two men carefully lowered Higgins to the ground. He held his breath, counting the seconds, trying to picture how long it would take them to loosen and remove the noose. And finally, as he hit fourteen, he heard coughing and gasping as Higgins fought to catch her breath.

The relief nearly carried his consciousness away from him. He took a minute, focused on breathing, and then started working on the ropes still holding his left wrist to the arm of the chair. He'd nearly gotten himself free when he heard a noise at the door and looked up to see T.C. carefully holding the door open. Magnum walked though, Higgins in his arms. Even across the distance between them, Rick could see the angry red marks around her throat that would soon become livid bruises.

But she was alive. And, if he wasn't imagining the pretty red and blue lights, then they were both going to be just fine. Sure, he was going to have nightmares for weeks. But he'd dealt with nightmares before. They were nothing. Meyers had lost this sick little game. And, as soon as the cops got there, Rick was going to take a vicious amount of pleasure in making sure Meyers lost his freedom too.


End file.
